


Sugar, We're Going To Hell (a Whumptober Series)

by glitterandrocketfuel



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: America's Suitehearts (Music Video), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blood and Gore, Demons, Halloween, I'm Going to Hell, Light BDSM, M/M, One Shot Collection, Peterick, Van Days, Whumptober 2018
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-14
Updated: 2018-10-14
Packaged: 2019-08-02 04:30:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16298204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitterandrocketfuel/pseuds/glitterandrocketfuel
Summary: Series of one-shots and related adventures of the Fall Out Boys as they try to survive their way through Whumptober 2018's prompts.





	1. Bloody Hands (NSFW)

**Author's Note:**

> I blame @laudanum_cafe mostly, but @flames_and_jade and @sn1tchesandtalkers and @das_verlorene_kind deserve some more of the credit.
> 
> As always, if you got here by googling yourself, I'd back away now. There is no Ctrl-Z for your brain. CWs for NSFW sex with hints of BDSM, bloodplay and general Octoberized goreyness. Also pranks and occasional feels-punches.
> 
> This chapter: Vampire!Patrick, BDSM, NSFW, Blood & Gore

Patrick’s wrists are slick in the ropes, sweat stinging the abrasions he’s torn into his skin with the way he twists, arms stretched high above him. _You wanted this_ , a small voice in his head hisses, while the other thing he wants–more than anything else in the world right now–remains tantalizingly out of reach by mere inches.

His pulse pounds in his ears and every stray breeze over his exposed skin is like icy fire along his nerve endings and before he thinks, he’s locking his bare legs around Pete’s hips, using his own to pull the other man closer…closer… _there!_

Pete stumbles, knocked off balance for an instant but it’s all Patrick needs. His nose is buried in Pete’s neck, just above the circle of thorns he can’t resist. He anoints the ink with a flick of his tongue just before he sinks his fangs into Pete’s skin. Pete groans, as achingly hard as Patrick as he ruts against him.

The taste of blood and the hot pulse of his lover’s cock are too much and not enough for Patrick and he comes, fast and hot between them, barely together enough to drag his fangs from Pete’s vein as Pete shoves him away, hard, and slaps a hand against his still-bleeding puncture wounds.

It’s too late, though. Patrick’s orgasm gave him the strength to tear right through the ropes holding him tied to the pipe above their heads and he’s on Pete in the blink of an eye, shoving Pete’s bloody hands away from his neck to latch on again. 

“Patrick–‘Trick, please–” Neither of them know what Pete’s asking for as he crumples to the floor, Patrick on top of him and no restraints or safewords left. “You…promised.”

Patrick’s bloody hand makes its own swirls and parallel lines down Pete’s torso in sharp contrast to the inks already there, until his fingers circle Pete’s cock. “I remember,” he says against Pete’s fluttering pulse as his hand slides, faster and faster to the song of Pete’s breathless moans in his ear and Pete’s rushing pulse under his lips. 

And he does. The copper-sweet tang of Pete’s blood on his tongue summons so many memories He remembers the countless times they’ve come together like this, with restraints and safewords and aftercare and Patrick slipping into the commanding voice that pushes Pete to find his boundaries and that quiet place that brings him peace, and Pete’s beautiful submission to Patrick’s will that peels away the rest of the world and all their shared insecurities and strips them down to twin skeletons sharing one soul and one heartbeat. “I did, baby. I promised,” he murmurs against Pete’s throat. He has to stop.

They’d talked about knife-play and edging during a dark time when Pete’s mind just wouldn’t quiet with sensation or simple pain. Pete had dived into researching how to be safe, how to understand the physiological responses to injuries. Patrick read everything he could on how to be careful, so careful in drawing blood. 

It all went sideways in a dark Arena hallway and weeks of adjustment afterwards. 

Now they are so careful to understand Patrick’s body’s increased strength and response to the scent of blood, and Pete’s mind’s response to the command in Patrick’s voice that goes deeper than it ever did, but is no longer sated with just an orgasm.

But careful isn’t enough. Pete’s hips jerk up and his last groan is a barely-audible sigh and a hot flood over his abdomen. It hungers and it wants and his bloody hands move faster. Patrick is lost in taste and scent and the complete sublimation of Pete’s will to his own, right down to the spaces between his heartbeats.

Pete tries to pull away. “Trick, please…too much…Uma…Uma Thurman. _Umathurman umathurman_ –”

Patrick freezes. The response, the hunger, retracts with his fangs from Pete’s throat and he licks the wound tenderly before lifting his head to meet Pete’s eyes. “Seems our safeword still works.” His voice sounds like rusty old blood to his own ears. Pete’s fresh vintage is still thick in his throat and Patrick doesn’t know if he wants to cry or to crash himself, but some habits, it appears, transcend a radical change of state. He lifts himself off Pete and lifts the other man easily–one benefit of supernatural strength.

Together they stumble to the shower, and afterwards, it’s orange juice and oatmeal cookies for Pete and respectful distance for Patrick as he cleans up the basement and if the water sometimes leaks from his eyes as much as it does from the bucket that rinses everything off the concrete floor down the drain, then that’s just who they are this week.

But Pete doesn’t stay away. He never stays away. One day, Patrick realizes, it’ll be the death of him. _And that’s the day I see my next sunrise_.

Patrick drops his head into his hands. And it’s fucking _Pete_ who is comforting _him_. _When did the world turn upside down?_

“Hey–hey Trick. It’s okay,” Pete says softly. “It’s okay. It was good, even. The end, there? I knew I could safeword out and you’d listen. No matter how far gone you think you are.”

“I promised one day you would bleed for me.” Patrick lifted his head. 

Pete is too pale, but he takes Patrick’s icy hand in his own cold fingers. “I will bleed for you every day, if that’s what it takes.”

Patrick still has bloody hands, even if the blood isn’t there.


	2. The Perfect Pumpkin (Betrayed)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete's on the hunt for the perfect pumpkin while Patrick just wants clean underwear and a shower. Joe and Andy should get medals for putting up with this shit. Features VanDays FOB.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @laudanum_cafe 's gremlin!Patrick and goblin!Pete had a little undue influence on this one. Not NSFW, but I'm not responsible if you get any ideas...

“The Perfect Pumpkin”

Whumptober. I think I might have kidnapped [@laudanumcafe](https://tmblr.co/mV4nhzyYn6I77xa6k4gAB9A) ‘s gremlin!Patrick and goblin!Pete for this one. Or at the very least, they were definitely a Very Bad Influence on this little Van Days crew…

Patrick knew it was a mistake to ever trust Pete Fucking Wentz when Halloween was involved. Or anything at all, really. Pete had been on this “perfect pumpkin” kick for over a week, and they were driving through October days having to listen to Pete throw out quotes from “It’s the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown” for six days too long, in Patrick’s (correct) opinion. When Joe had had enough, he pulled off the Interstate at an exit in the middle of Fucking Nowhere when he spotted a plywood sign that advertised “Hayrides & Halloween Pumpkins.”

“Take him on a hayride and do not come back until he gets his goddamn pumpkin,” Joe said to Andy, only a little horrified that he sounded like his mother, who’d said the exact same thing to Joe himself two Halloweens ago when his little brother whined about not having a jack o’lantern.

“Or turns into one,” Patrick called out from the back.

“I’ll turn you into a pumpkin, too, if you two don’t stop sniping at each other back there.” Joe growled as Andy and Pete exited the van. “Meet us back at the truck stop half a mile back towards the Interstate.” Joe gave the instructions to Andy, since Pete was already bouncing on the balls of his feet and singing, “Pumpkins, pumpkins, pumpkin pumpkin _pump-kin!_ ” He ended with an obscene thrust of his hips and a maniacal laugh that made a passing family pull their kids away from the creepy van and its creepy, unwashed inhabitants.

“Not here, you perverted hillbilly,” Joe muttered as the door shut behind Andy. “That truck stop has a diner. I want real food.” He peeled out of the gravel parking lot of the hayride and made the left turn back towards the highway.

It was the first tour that Patrick and Joe didn’t have to be in school in the fall. FBR was Seriously Talking. Mostly to Pete, who was older and had a streak of positively cutthroat instinct about bullshit-peddlers that, if Patrick were brutally honest with himself (and alone in a dark bathroom with a little time on his hands), was such a goddamn turn-on that it might become a bona-fide kink at some point. 

Tour usually meant limited clothes, limited cleanliness, and limited funds. But when Patrick saw they had showers at the truck stop, he waved Joe ahead. His sister had given him an idea. _“Look, doofus. Next time you shower, take your undies in there with you, wash ‘em, and hang ‘em out to dry so you stop smelling your own disgusting, crusty ass. Jeez. All four of you are gross.”_ So that’s what Patrick did. 

But he forgot to leave one pair dry to put on afterwards. So he was wrestling his clean, but damp, legs into dirty jeans, and they were putting up a fight. He was exhausted. And a little intimidated by the truckers waiting for their ten minutes in the showers. Two AM was not a comfortable time to be a little guy with pretty lips and long hair around showers with large, burly men who’d been away from home for long stretches, no matter how you felt about men in general.

He got the jeans up, but only partially buttoned, and tied his jacket around his waist. At least being cold might give him an assist in going commando without losing anything important in an unfortunate zipper accident.

Patrick spotted Joe slumped in a booth in the diner area of the stop. “Hey. I’m bedding down for the night.”

“A little early? Sit down, split fries with me.”

Patrick shook his head, shifting from foot to foot. “I’ve gotta hang these up to dry.” He held up a grocery bag containing his wet underwear.

“That’s a full bag. You do every pair?”

Patrick nodded. He didn’t know it, but that was his first mistake. Joe choked out a laugh. “You free-ballin’, dude?”

Patrick winced. It did the job and he didn’t have to confirm or deny. “Save me some fries if you don’t finish?”

“Fine.” Joe waved a hand. “Get the fuck out of here before your nutsack touches something I have to touch.”

Patrick didn’t see the sudden flurry of his thumbs moving over the keys of his flip-phone.

With his wrung-out undies clutched to him, Patrick waddled the rest of the way out to the van. The short walk chafed his thighs and tangled his short’n’curlies up so tightly that tears leaked out of his eyes from the sharp pains. _Enough_ , he thought. Perhaps unwisely, but when life’s got you by the short’n’curlies, you don’t always think straight. He climbed inside and headed for the back between the amps, where he’d built a little nest out of blankets and pillows just big enough for him to wedge his upper body in for peace, quiet, and darkness.

He spread out as many pairs of underwear and socks as he could manage, along every surface available. Finally, he could no longer stand the feel of his jeans twisting his nutsack and climbed into his sleeping bag and kicked the damn things off. 

Flopped on his stomach wearing nothing but a t-shirt and his bare ass, Patrick didn’t so much fall asleep as get ambushed and dragged down by it. He didn’t know it, but that was his second mistake. And when you were on the road with Pete Fucking Wentz, you weren’t allowed a third.

**

He came back to consciousness with the sensation of something light and ticklish running down over his left buttcheek. It took him a full minute–and another trailing sensation over the right one to register that it wasn’t just the blanket scratching over his bare skin. He lifted his head and felt his stomach sink.

Pete Fucking Wentz sat cross-legged in the space next to Patrick’s little nest, the biggest shit-eating grin on his face that Patrick’d ever seen. No sudden moves, Patrick told himself. Instead, he growled low. “What. The fuck. Are you. Doing?”

Pete’s grin grew wider. “I couldn’t find the perfect pumpkin. Until Joe texted me and I came back to find the perfect pumpkin had been inside me all along.” Pete leaned down and licked his ear. “Or maybe I should say, I’ll be inside the perfect pumpkin soon.”

Patrick’s eyes went wide, _No sudden moves! T-Rexes and Pete Wentzes can sense fear._ Pete leaned back and Patrick’s gut sank lower–low enough to bump up against his sudden raging boner–as he heard the click-snap of Pete’s phone’s camera.

The phone was shoved under his nose and he saw his own pasty ass-cheeks, covered with orange highlighter, with black sharpie lines running down at regular intervals. He remembered Pete’s remark about Joe. Joe the fucking Betrayer, who would be visited upon with _such vengeance_ –but in the meantime–

Patrick turned on his side and propped his head on one hand. His eyebrow went up when he saw Pete’s grin freeze. “Okay, big-shot. You’ve had your fun and have your evidence, but your mouth just wrote a check your body better cash.” He leaned back down on his stomach and arched his hips, just a little. “Better get to work, Peter, Peter, Pumpkin-Eater.”

**

Patrick fought the post-fuck afterglow just long enough to outlast Pete and fished his phone out of the blankets. He snapped two pictures, one of Pete’s hips and one of Pete’s face. If that pumpkin-ass shot of his ever got out, it’d be book-ended by Pete’s orange cheeks and similarly-stained crotch with no question as to where Wentz’s cheeks and hips got their color.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a nice cute-break. It gets darker from here on out.


	3. Bruises (Mortgaged Souls)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rule number one in Fall Out Boy media is to Never expect Pete Wentz to pass up a chance to take the stupid answer for the lulz. But only slightly less well-known in the lexicon of “Things to Never Ever Under Any Circumstances Do” is Never assume Patrick Stump will not have his revenge when that answer involves him. 
> 
> After Pete opens mouth and inserts foot during an interview, Patrick puts him through a little hell for it. It gets a little dark. And a lot smutty. Definitely NSFW. Featuring Demon!Patrick, a little BDSM, and good taste in top-shelf liquor. A "Mortgaged Souls" story.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pete opens mouth and inserts foot during the Twitter “20 Questions” interview. Be sure brain is engaged before putting mouth into gear, Petey.

Rule number one in Fall Out Boy media is to Never expect Pete Wentz to pass up a chance to take the stupid answer for the lulz. But only slightly less well-known in the lexicon of “Things to Never Ever Under Any Circumstances Do” is Never assume Patrick Stump will not have his revenge when that answer involves him. 

“Something that you hate but is totally necessary?” asks the interviewer in the rapid-fire twenty-questions segment.

“Patrick,” says Pete. Then waits a beat. Then says, “Oh shit!” with wide, innocent eyes and a shit-eating grin. Of course it’s done for the laughs.  
Patrick is supposed to get a wide-eyed, sad-panda expression on his face, maybe stick out a bottom lip in a pout hammed up for the camera, because that is how they play it–Pete is the manic, media-hungry dumbass with zero filters, and Patrick is the long-suffering, adorable angel of a human caretaker–the Indulgent Grownup to Pete’s Big Kid Energy.

Except this time, Patrick goes off-script. 

His eyes widen, perhaps with a touch of the mania that Pete’s worked so hard at pushing as the theme to this album and tour and phase of the band. His arm goes around Pete’s shoulders and Pete can’t help but inhale the closeness of Patrick, who lets that arm rest, heavy across the top of Pete’s back, for just a second, but it is a second that is rife with promise and the weight of Patrick’s arm leaves an indelible impression, even though he pulls it away a second later.

Pete glances over at him. For a second, Patrick’s hand rests flat at the base of his neck, warm and strong-fingered, before those fingers brush over his shoulder. Pete meets Patrick’s eyes with a grin that is as nervous as it is open–as it’s never _not_ been open to Patrick. Pete’s grins are always open and full of unbridled joy when he looks at or talks about Patrick, because that’s the way Pete is–zero to eleventy million, and it’s always eleventy million when it comes to Patrick.

But Patrick–Patrick is every number between the two, especially the imaginary and irrational ones like Pi and the square root of two. Of course, irrational numbers are also transcendental, and so is the way the slightest shift in Patrick’s smile can go from genuine amusement to a devilishly cunning flash of near-demonic promise, and that is exactly what Pete sees as the fingers trail lightly over his shoulder. Just that touch, and the demonic shift measured in millimeters in the curve of Patrick’s smile. Pete’s own smile goes just a shade more nervous.

Pete follows the movement of Patrick’s arm as it snakes back into Patrick’s lap, his eyes drawn to where Patrick’s hand drops in between his legs to tug his shirt down. His own hands can’t keep still as he suddenly claps them down on his legs, as if the overly jovial reaction will distract the camera from noticing how his eyes followed Patrick’s hand to his crotch.

Pete’s fingers dig into his thighs, squeezing at the sudden tightness in his skin as they finish up the rapid-fire session because with that single look that flashed from behind Patrick’s glasses, Pete knows he’s forgotten rule number two for two seconds too long.

By the time they get back to the hotel room, Pete is ready to jump out of his skin. Patrick follows him inside and takes the ice bucket and the little sanitary baggie. “I’m going to get some ice,” Patrick says. “I think you know what to do.”

The door closes behind Patrick and Pete is on the clock. He shucks his shoes and jeans, strips out of his shirt, and turns his phone on Do Not Disturb. He unwraps and washes the glasses that were next to the ice bucket (because he knows those things are often dirty in hotels, even if they’re wrapped). Then he’s on the bed, hands and knees, eyes closed and forcing himself not to hyperventilate. The door, when it opens, sounds too loud in his ears.

“So you _can_ control yourself when you really try.” Patrick’s voice has that thread of steel that goes straight to Pete’s blood stream. Pete doesn’t reply–he knows they’re past that. He hears the tap of the ice bucket as Patrick sets it down on the desk, hears the clink of ice cubes being placed into a glass and the stream of liquid being poured. “So you hate me, but I’m necessary.”

Pete bites his tongue so he doesn’t speak. He can’t justify his words or explain them away.

“Do you hate me, Pete?” The burn of whiskey grows stronger as Patrick approaches. Pete feels his warm fingers brush over his bare back, just as they did on the camera, and shivers at the touch. The scent of single-malt scotch reaches his nostrils, a mouth-watering sting. The sting is followed by a sharper, more literal sting as Patrick’s open hand slams down onto his bare ass cheeks.

Pete shudders. His nerve endings flare up and sizzle to attention.

“I asked you a question. Do you hate me, Pete?”

The next slap stings his skin and he can feel the warmth radiating outward. “I don’t hate _you_.” The emphasis on the last word doesn’t go unnoticed.

“But you hate him?” The spanks rain down, fast like rabbit punches.

But they’re nothing compared to the feel of hot, wet lips against his inflamed skin and Pete shudders again, the fine trembling moving out into his extremities until he feels his whole body buzzing. The sensations reel through Pete, leaving him a shaking mess, a loose bolt as Patrick’s fingers tease at his hole, at first dry, then with the searing burn of ice and too-expensive booze drizzling down between his ass cheeks. 

Pete leaves his body for a minute, floating up near the ceiling, looking down on himself crouched on the bed with limbs straining to remain still. He can even see the top button of Patrick’s beanie, which he hasn’t taken off, and the rocks tumbler as Patrick sets it down just on top of Pete’s tailbone. The beanie can’t conceal what’s underneath the hat, though, and the smooth round line is ruined by the tiny, flirty horns that push it up off Patrick’s head.

“Do you hate him?” Patrick asks again, and this time his fingers are coated in lube and the push-drag tugs Pete back down into his body. 

Pete melts, his last attempt at resistance gone with the melting ice. He pants out a breathless answer, sudden and desperate. But unable to lie. “I hate him for letting you in.”

Patrick’s fingers keep moving inside him. First one, then two. Patrick’s lips brush over his sore skin, soft and soothing until– _bite!_ –the pain sets Pete on fire and he’s glad of the icy cold ring of glass resting on his lower back. “Mmm, but you love what I do to you, don’t you?”

It’s impossible to lie when your best friend’s fingers are buried to the knuckles in your ass and you’re desperately trying not to come all over the bedspread until he lets you. But you _can_ prevaricate, if you’ve still got the brain cells. “He was an angel! _My_ angel!” In between pleasure and pain is plenty of room for the loss and the ache of what he’s done to the angel-voiced, sin-lipped, golden-ticket boy. His best friend and twin skeleton and the saint swimming in his sins. He promised to give Patrick the world, and instead delivered purgatory and crashing hips.

The cold ring of the glass disappears from Pete’s skin, and Patrick’s wet tongue replaces the chill with heat. Pete can hear the clink of the ice. Patrick’s fingers withdraw, replaced with his slicked-up cock and Pete can’t help but moan as Patrick pulls him back and he sinks down, his knees to either side of Patrick’s. Patrick’s fingers press on his jaw, turning Pete’s head to the side for a kiss. Pete keeps his eyes closed and for once, Patrick lets him as he presses their lips together and spits a stream of scotch into Pete’s mouth. The alcohol is delicious, scotch-and-Patrick essence.

His best friend’s arms wrap around his chest, holding him steady and still while he ruts up into him. Somewhere along the way, Patrick had shrugged out of his shirt and the springy dusting of ginger chest hair prickles against Pete’s back. 

Pete can’t help but move his hips in time with Patrick’s thrusts. He knows they shouldn’t talk about this, but being naked between them has always meant being naked-naked, in the soul and brain and heart as well as the body. “He–let–you–in!” Pete grinds out between grinding down on Patrick’s cock.

“Are you saying the deal wasn’t worth it?” Patrick’s voice is low and sultry in Pete’s ear and Pete’s insides twist in desire to hear more of that unholy thrum.

He wants to answer that yes, the deal wasn’t worth it. Nothing was worth Patrick’s soul. But Patrick had been bargaining for Pete’s _life_ , making a teenage vow in a parking lot. And Pete…didn’t want to die.

Patrick’s hips are moving faster. The slick in and out is building friction inside him that’s traveling to Pete’s cock and translating into a desperate need to be touched. “P-please–” he stutters. He doesn’t say Patrick’s name, can’t bring himself to say it.

Patrick’s arms tighten around his chest, holding him in a tight grip that’s unusually strong for the compact-sized man fucking him. Pete feels like he’s going to split from his body again. “Please–fuck, please–”

Something slender and fingerlike wraps around his dick once, twice. It’s not a stroke so much as a ripple. Needle-sharp teeth sink into the skin of his neck and Patrick’s arms are viselike-tight around his midsection. “Want to come, Pete?”

“Fffffuuuck, yes. Please!”

“Say my name, then. I want to taste it on your lips.”

Pete shakes his head. “Can’t–please don’t make–” The rippling appendage around his cock moves faster now, and Pete’s not long for the world. His balls are tight against his body, Patrick’s hips are slamming into his, and Patrick’s got him locked down as surely as if they were inside a salt circle with a pentagram for good measure.

Patrick’s growl vibrates Pete’s neck where his lips are sucking a blood-dark bruise into the tanned skin there. “Don’t lie to me, Pete. Not when we’re like this.”

“He–was an–angel!” Pete’s breath hitches on a sob. “Plea-ea-ease!” He’s a ball of nothing but nerve-endings and denial, and the denial is leaking away in a slow drizzle out of his imprisoned dick.

“Don’t lie to yourself, either. _Say my name_.”

Pete shakes his head. Patrick’s hold tightens and his hips slam upward, bumping Pete’s prostate up against a reality that has him seeing stars and it’s all over for Pete. “Paatriiiick!” The name is forced out of his throat with his orgasm and hot, thick ribbons pressure-wash his illusions away.

Patrick’s laugh is like stones sliding together, low and dark and brimstone-hot. Two seconds later, heat floods Pete as Patrick follows him down, hot breath on the back of his neck. Before he can slump forward, a pair of leathery wings enfolds him. “Shh, I’ve got you.”

His dick is released and Pete is laid gently down on the bed, courteously to the side of the wet spot where the spilled drink and his own come have puddled.

“Open your eyes, Pete.”

Pete shakes his head. He doesn’t want to.

“Open your eyes.” The thread of command grows stronger and Pete’s lids flutter open, not entirely of his own accord. He meets blues that have been swallowed by gold, a beloved face with soft features made more angular by the presence of subtle ridges of cartilage beneath the skin. And teeth just a bit sharper than the grin that warms him in public spaces. Patrick’s hat has fallen to the side, and the horns curve up from his shaggy, mussed hair. 

Patrick presses his lips to Pete’s in a tender, soft-lipped kiss. “See, they do taste the same, my name and his.”

Pete is drunk on post-coital stupid but manages to feebly shake his head. “He’s an angel, my Patrick.”

Patrick’s tail, so recently wrapped around Pete’s cock, snakes up and down Pete’s side, digging into the bruises he left there. “Oh, baby, I still am. _He_ still is. What else is a demon but an angel who just…took a Fall for his best friend?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a little of this goes to @Flames_and_Jade because she writes such awesome BDSM stuff.


	4. Stay (Mortgaged Souls)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pete owes a Debt. Patrick will take it out of him.
> 
> Getting really dark here, gang. CW for blood and gore, explicit sex, a little torture, and making deals with devils in Hell. NSFW featuring Demon!Patrick, DevilSoulPunk!Patrick, Sandman!Pete, BDSM, and Bloody Marys that should be made with tomato juice and not that gross "clamato" shit. Also a little bit of *interesting* things done with celery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by @das-verlorene-kind ‘s amazing artwork of Soul Punk Devil!Patrick here: http://das-verlorene-kind.tumblr.com/image/166369521803
> 
> This one is also for @scarredsodeep/@shark-myths

Patrick sits across from where Pete is securely fastened to a St. Andrews Cross. He’s wearing the red suit so it must be Saturday. When open doors are open-ended and so are chest cavities. He’s holding a tall glass filled with thick red liquid that matches his suit and stains his lips and tongue when he sips. The celery stalk is an incongruous counterpoint of cool green contrast to Patrick’s hot-gold eyes and blonde hair, and the crimson shades that color his suit and tint the bone spurs of the little horns that curve up out of his head. “It’s that time again, Dreamboat,” Patrick says in the sauciest voice Pete will ever hear come from that golden throat.

He rests his elbows on his spread knees, knowing his hands and the casual way he holds his drink are framing his crotch like a targeting reticle for Pete’s attention. Sometimes, Pete is not fond of his brain and his nervous system and the way they process things like pain and pleasure and desire. But his heart and soul don’t care about Pete’s complaints. When it’s time to give Patrick his everything, Pete will show up every single time, dressed to kill.

Or be killed, as the case may be.

Down here, he isn’t just Pete who wears skinny jeans and a Starbucks attached to his hand or Pete who wears tracksuit pants and hoodies. That Pete is not allowed in this place–not wanted down here, any more than soft, comfortable, innocent Patrick is. Because when all this started, it was Pete who made the promise, Pete who agreed to the exchange, and Pete who made the sacrifice.

Patrick was never supposed to enter into it. Never supposed to know. But somewhere along the way, the innocent-looking, clever-minded golden boy worked it out, found the tear in reality, and found out what lived there and what it wanted and from whom it wanted. And somehow during the hiatus, while Pete was trying to scrape the remnants of his shit to get it together and be a man instead of a wreck, shy, anxious Patrick Stump had fucking _soul-punked_ the Infernal Revenue Service and tricked a deal out of a devil that brought the two of them here, now, and in this place. Once a month, whether they needed it or not.

So now it was Patrick who came to collect what Pete owed.

Somewhere along the way, Pete had given his heart to Patrick and ended up selling his soul to him, too. Pete considered it a good trade. Patrick’s own soul ended up in hock and it wasn’t like they didn’t share that soul anyway, as Pete had learned early on. He’d just…arranged things so that his side of the scale was the payment side.

Patrick regards him from the tops of his eyes. His manspreading game is good, but Pete’s is better by default. He rolls his hips, about the only part of him that has a little give on the giant X of the cross. The torches lining the stone walls of their “vault” cast flickering light over the shiny gold lame of Pete’s skintight pants and catch glints of the gold-shot threads that make up the lace of his collar.

Down here, Pete doesn’t have his man-bun or his flat-ironed hair. He has a blown-out mop that falls boyishly over one eye. Eye socket, that is. His eyes aren’t the same down here. They burn whiskey-hot flames in the midnight emptiness of his sockets, dimming and flaring in place of where his eyelids might flutter.

He doesn’t have his usual lips, either, but he still has a wide grin (whether he feels like smiling or not). Good thing he feels like smiling now, even if it’s a sardonic show of teeth (and jawbone) and the slashes through his cheek meat that open his mouth wide enough to eat his own dreams in the upstairs-world so that he can regurgitate them down here. “Time to pay the piper again, huh, Tricky?” He lets his jaw fall open, just enough so that his tongue slides out, purple and pointed and unnaturally long. “Or is it lay the piper? ‘Cause I’m good to go, either way.”

Patrick’s demon-eyes flick away from Pete’s to his tongue. Pete catches it and flicks the end in a lascivious gesture and rolls his hips again, emphasizing the growing bulge outlined in gold lame. Patrick’s response is to curve his fingers, tipped in long red nails filed to sharp points, around the celery stalk and slowly pull it free of his Bloody Mary. He lets the thick tomato juice and vodka mix drip off the end of the stalk for a moment before bringing it to his lips. His tongue flicks out and draws the last crimson drops from the stalk before his lips close around the pale green vegetable and Pete’s eyes flare.

“Fuck, you’re a dirty little devil, aren’t you?”

Patrick draws the stalk out from between his lips with a smacking sound and Pete has to lean back and stare up at the smoky ceiling for a moment while he gets himself under control. It’s not his smartest move, since the ceiling is tiled with mirrors. He can see his own face–America’s Suiteheart Mister Sandman with bone-white patches showing through blackened lips slashed open and sunken eye sockets, wearing the mask of the dreamer stuck between life and death. He can see his hips, trapped in purgatory and gold lame, and the bulge of his erection, and he can see his ribcage, open and fleshless because the stuff of life–a full belly and lungs full of sweet breath and the joy of life–never make the journey here. Only the dark things like his lust and his heart and his thoughts and the hollow emptiness of his cravings make it here.

When he looks at Patrick again, the devil of his best friend is standing up, drink in hand while he tilts his head back to down it. Pete can smell the zing of Tabasco sauce and the tang of a hint of lemon as Patrick approaches. He finishes the last of the drink as he stands between Pete’s legs, close enough for Pete to feel the heat radiating from Patrick’s body right where his crotch is so achingly close to touching Patrick’s thanks to the angle of the cross.

Patrick sets the drink down on the altar to the side, next to the jar standing open and ready to receive its offering. The sharp chlorophyll scent of the celery hits Pete just before the leafy end of the stalk brushes across his face in a playful smack. 

The soft tickle of the leaves is worse than the sharpest sting of Patrick’s claws as he slices his other hand through the gold lame of Pete’s pants–and the skin underneath–where the crease of his thigh meets his hip. Patrick trails the celery over Pete’s nipples and right to the ragged edge of where his flesh ends and empty ribcage begins. Pete gasps, even without lungs to breathe air, because his voice is one of the sins that follows him down here and it needs air.

So do the moans that come up from his throat as Patrick whacks his sensitive nipples with the celery stalk and cuts open the other side of Pete’s pants with his claws. The stretchy fabric shrinks away from Pete’s crotch like it’s been told it’s bad and should go to the corner. Instead, it hides behind Pete’s balls in a bunch, leaving his hard-on standing proud to defend it. Patrick drops the celery stalk down to tickle the brave defender and Pete groans. “What–do I owe–this time?”

Patrick’s eyes drop to Pete’s lips, his sooty eye makeup better than Pete’s has been in years. “You’ve been awfully…domesticated up there lately.” Patrick’s claws track lightly over the tops of Pete’s thighs before digging in to cut sudden, sharp-bright slices into the sides of his hips. “And a little half-assed, too.” 

To emphasize his point, Patrick steps closer, the brush of his silk suit sending fiery joy through Pete’s groin while the slide of his hands around to Pete’s ass cheeks fights for his attention. Twin pinches have Pete’s hips thrusting forward and Patrick stepping back. “Ah-ah-ah.” Patrick boops him on the nose with the celery stalk. “Naughty boy. You can do so much better than third-rate paps and boring-ass pull-quotes about buying apples at the farmers market for the 'Stars are Just Like Us’ pages of Us Weekly.”

Patrick tickles his erection with the celery stalk again. “It’s been too long since we’ve seen this–” he flings the celery stalk over his shoulder and takes Pete’s cock firmly in his hand, giving it a tug, and Pete’s hips come off the cross, “–in action. That’s a headline.”

Pete swallows, a thick frisson of real fear going through him. None of what they do down here is ever supposed to touch what happens up there. It’s one of the iron-clad rules–what goes on in Hell, stays in Hell. Nothing touches the innocents around them. He shakes his head. “I’m not–that’s not me, anymore. Not up there.”

Patrick’s plump, tomato-stained lips brush against Pete’s neck. “Pity. Then I guess it’ll have to be you down here.”

Pete’s stomach would clench if it were still with him, but it’s not, and the feeling is the ghost of a metaphor, but still too real. “I’m not getting off that easily, am I?”

“Oh, you’re getting off, all right. I insist.” Patrick’s chuckle tickles his throat, just before the delicate fangs break Pete’s skin and white-hot pain-pleasure arrows to his crotch, wiping out thoughts of what’s up there until he’s brought back down by Patrick’s voice. “Your image is so cleaned-up up there. It’s downright heartwarming.” Patrick pulls away and his golden hellfire eyes gleam. “So it’ll have to be your heart this time.” His hand, still wrapped around Pete’s cock, squeezes. “Along with the usual serving of all those dirty lusts you can’t resist hinting at.”

Pete nods. He doesn’t technically have the option to refuse, since a deal’s a deal. He just does so to remind himself and renew his consent. He’s going to be paying Patrick for the rest of their lives–he will always say yes. Patrick puts his hands to either side of Pete’s head, resting them on the cross beams, and leans in to brush his body against Pete’s. “Gonna fuck those lusts out of you now, baby. Shall I take your heart first, or wait until after?”

It would be easier to tell Patrick to take his heart first. But Pete doesn’t do things the easy way. “Wait until after.”

Patrick’s grin is sharp-toothed and luscious. “I was hoping you’d say that.” His hot mouth moves over Pete’s jaw, down to his neck where he bites a mark, and down to his nipples, where he alternates bites with soothing laves of his devilish tongue.

Pete can’t reciprocate, which is why he’s holding on to his heart just a little longer. “I can’t fuck you without loving you, Trick.” His words resonate with truth.  
Patrick pauses where his mouth has moved over the bartskull tattoo, having skipped the emptiness between Pete’s sternum and his lower abdomen. It’s slightly nauseating for any creature to try to bite hickeys into an inter-dimensional warp where a belly-button ought to be. His eyes flick up to Pete’s.

For a moment, Pete sees the blue, trying to overcome the gold. _It’s okay_ , he thinks. _I know you’re in there, too_.

“Your lusts are so much deeper when your heart’s involved,” Patrick says as he wraps his lips around Pete’s cock. Pete groans with the sensation and the heart he’s about to lose crashes around in his chest. Patrick’s mouth is made for blowjobs, and it doesn’t matter whether he’s down here or up there, Patrick has never once failed to make Pete weak in the knees and a melted puddle of human, even when he’s not quite human.

For a demon, Patrick is considerate. He may be a saucy snarktopus when his horns are out, but there’s a core of unfailing consideration for others that not even a devil’s bargain could exorcise out of Patrick. Pete doesn’t know where the lube came from or why it smells like cinnamon and vanilla, but he can’t be anything but grateful for it as Patrick works him open. “Fuck–Patrick–I don’t think I can wait–”

“I don’t think you have much choice.” The cross forces him to lie there and take whatever Patrick decides he’s going to use to extract the lusts from Pete, but Patrick’s also still Patrick, horns and tail or no. “You watch me on tour. You hide it well, Pete, but I know you.” Patrick’s fingers are working him and Patrick’s tail is having its merry way working up and down Pete’s legs, leaving sizzly little scratch-marks that do nothing but remind him of how many nerve endings he still has and how many of those nerve endings Patrick can play like one of his instruments.

Pete nods. “I do. I’ve always watched you. You know that.”

“Ahh, yes. But this time, you’ve got a lot more self-control. It’s fucking hot, Pete. Why do you think I have so much fun on stage?” 

Pete should have known. Patrick’s devilishness in this area was already well-established long before the bargain. Pete might be the showman, but Patrick took the trickster’s way and a galaxy of subtlety that Pete’s overtness couldn’t keep up with. 

This tour had felt so free for them both. Pete thought it was a by-product of coming to parity as they both matured and broadened their perspectives. But bleeding off his lusts in Hell might have something to do with it, too. “Come on, Trick. I thought you were gonna fuck these unholy lusts out of me, not praise me for my self-control.”

The challenge is supposed to make Patrick growl and get down to business, but Patrick is smarter than Pete on this. Instead, he moves deliberately slowly as his hands work his red satin bow tie loose, then move to the buttons on his shirt as one, two, three, four pop free, revealing his pale, luminous skin. Pete’s preternatural tongue slips out–he can’t help it with the delectable confection before him. “Are you as hard as I am?” Pete’s voice is hoarse, low and intimate.

“Obscenely so,” Patrick answers.

“Show me?” Pete’s request is low and throaty. 

Patrick’s hand goes to the fastener of his pants and he’s shifting red fabric loose around his hips, freeing his cock for Pete to take in with his eyes, but not his mouth or hands. Patrick steps forward, close enough again for their bodies to touch, only this time there’s no fabric between them. In another few heartbeats counting down to the time Pete will have no more heartbeats, there’s no space between them either. 

Patrick’s lips move over his face as he pushes past the initial resistance of Pete’s body. Pete’s shudder happens almost immediately and he’s angling his head for kisses, licking into Patrick’s mouth, flicking his tongue over Patrick’s neck as Patrick moves inside him.

Pete’s hips are slamming back against the wood of the cross, then forward as he reaches for that place, while at the same time trying like mad to twist away because it’s too much. Patrick holds his hips still for the final thrusts, growling against Pete’s teeth, sucking on his elongated freak-tongue. Patrick’s tail lashes against Pete’s thighs, whipping back and forth in time with Patrick’s sugar-hips.   
Patrick rides him relentlessly. His claws elongate as they skritch along Pete’s hips, and a demonic growl erupts from his throat. His eyes burn with hellfire as he meets Pete’s whiskey-burn gaze. Pete feels himself close. “Do it, Patrick. Do it quick.” His head drops back as he rides the crest of his orgasm.

Patrick slips his hand into Pete’s hollow ribcage and turns his wrist up. Pete’s madly beating heart rests in Patrick’s hands for a timeless instant and their eyes meet again. “I’ve got you.” Patrick’s voice has a demonic resonance to it that should be terrifying, but his words are so soft and Pete’s so high from coming his brains out that it drains the fear-impulse from him and leaves nothing but the naked intimacy between them. Patrick has his heart in his hands, and he trusts Patrick with it. Eyes locked in his, hand on heart, buried balls-deep inside him, Patrick shudders and his eyes flash blue again before returning to the demonic gold.

Then Patrick twists his hand.

Pete’s heart is ripped free, still fluttering with afterglow. Every pain there ever is, was, or shall be hits Pete all at once and his head falls back as he screams forever. The hollow sucking wound in his chest twists him, diminishes him, shrinks him down into a small, shivering less-than of loss and pain and everything that’s ever been crushed by a juggernaut of indifference.

Slowly he comes back to himself and Patrick is still there. Patrick is still there, pants undone, shirt unbuttoned, ridiculously hot little bow tie still hanging around his neck, hair mussed. Patrick presses his lush lips against Pete’s still-beating heart. “Sweet heart.” His tongue darts out to taste the organ. “Suiteheart.” He cradles Pete’s heart in his hands with reverence and steps away to slip it into the waiting jar on the altar.

Pete can hear the beat echoing hollow through his body. Every nerve ending he has left is sore, overloaded. His lusts are slaked and his debts are paid, but the price doesn’t come cheaply and it fucking hurts.

“Patrick?” Pete’s voice is thin. Thready. Soft enough almost to be missed, but Patrick’s ears are preternaturally good–they’ve always been that good, it’s how he knows the music to put to Pete’s words before it exists. 

The torches give off greasy smoke that has left carbonized streaks on his skin. The tile floor is filthy with puddles of blood and viscera and the other fluid leftovers of their session. The jar on the altar, which could pass as a dining room credenza in any other place, drips thick fluid down into the carved channels where they are carried away through holes in the stone walls.

Patrick turns. The hellfire in his eyes is banked, his skin is coated with a gleaming sheen of sweat. Patrick’s demonic face–lean and angular with the extra cartilage ridges leading up to his horns–looks as tortured as Pete’s ragged body feels. 

“Please,” Pete says through cracked lips. 

Patrick’s long-nailed fingers play lightly over Pete’s exposed ribcage, plucking quiet notes in a minor key from the bones that echo through the hollow of his empty torso. He presses his lush lips, bloodstained and full, against Pete’s face where his cheekbone has worn through to the bare bone underneath.

Pete’s half-doomed and Patrick is semi-sweet, spiked with the taste of Bloody Mary still on his tongue. This is the deal, though. Lips meet lips and bone and teeth while the drain gurgles quietly in the background and Hell’s neighbors shudder in fear at the unholy union. “She likes that we worked things out, you know. She’s not heartless.”

“Of course not.” Pete glances over to the jar. “She’s got mine and who knows how many others.”

“Yes, but She likes yours.”

“What’s the catch? She doesn’t just… _like_ people. That’s not how Celebrity works. She consumes them. Eats them from the inside until they’re just hollow vessels for Her.” Of course, Pete’s heart will grow back–it always does, just like his other organs, when he has to pony up for his debts. But it still leaves him hollow until it does. He tries not to be home for those times.

“It amuses Her. She wonders how long you’ll be able to keep it under wraps. She knows you can’t resist leaving little breadcrumbs. You’re at your best when you’re clever. Your most fascinating, and She does love being fascinated.”  
“But what about you?” Pete asks. It’s a legitimate question, even though he already knows the answer.

“I’m a much better liar, darling.” Patrick strokes along his jaw, pressing little kisses into his flesh.

Pete can’t forget that it was Patrick who tricked a devil into a time-share for Pete’s salvation. Patrick unbuckles Pete’s wrists from the cross, releases his ankles from the bottom stringers. Pete’s limbs drape over his shoulders, staining the red suit. 

“Stay?”

“Always.” Patrick’s wings close over the draft of brimstone-scented breeze curling up around Pete’s empty ribcage. 

In the center jar on the altar in the corner, Pete’s heart beats steady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd be remiss if I didn't shout out to @secretstudentdragonblog for always reading the weird stuff that falls out of my brain. We are sharing seats on the hayride to Hell, cuddled under a nice flannel blanket. <3

**Author's Note:**

> Some of these prompts are random one-shots, others are in a continuity AU I've been calling "Mortgaged Souls."


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